


come get your bard

by gremlit



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fae & Fairies, M/M, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 03:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30099471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gremlit/pseuds/gremlit
Summary: “He can’t marry your daughter. He’s already betrothed.”The monarch scowls, “To whom?”“To me.” Geralt declares, arms crossed defiantly. The low buzzing emitting from the creatures increases, the equivalent of tittered murmuring among a human audience.Faeries steal Jaskier away. Geralt does what he must.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 234





	come get your bard

“Look, Geralt, isn’t that pretty?” 

And that is all Jaskier needs to say for the alarm bells in Geralt’s head to go off, clanging in warning. 

“Don’t -” He manages before Jaskier steps into the ring of fungus and flora and disappears entirely. And so does the ring, no doubt a doorway into the fae world, luring careless idiots like Jaskier to be spirited away from the world of men. 

At least these things come in scores, passing by the untrained eye, but Geralt knows a fae trap when he sees one. They call to those a little different, and Jaskier is a perfect candidate with his artistic soul (Jaskier’s words) and romantic tunes; just the sort of human to amuse some bored fae. And obviously Geralt cannot let him become a court jester, trapped to play until he chokes on his own tongue. The fae are cruel to their playthings after they grow weary of them, and humans can never hold their attention for long.

After about an hour of searching the woods for another ring, Geralt finds one; its enclosure fading as the flowers wither, but it should still work. Geralt steps into it -

\- and is in a grotto filled with overgrown weeds and roots, moths and fireflies fluttering about his head. The cavern is lit by gems, gleaming from the walls. Some frogs croak and leap into a small pond at his abrupt appearance. 

“Hm.” Geralt has never much liked faeriekind; he finds their overindulgence gaudy and their strange aesthetics and decoration nothing more than pathetic attempts to impress their victims. Still, he follows the corridors to a larger hall, fashioned into an imitation of a throne room. The audience is made up of winged humanoids and tree-like beings, huge insects and arachnids sitting in the crowd. At the front of the hall, in an enormous wooden throne with carved decorative petals, is a human-looking creature, with pale skin like wizened bark and wholly black eyes. On their head is a wooden crown-like headpiece, branches rising into the air like a tree in winter. 

He hears Jaskier’s voice before he spots him through the crowd of faerie creatures. By the fae monarch’s left is Jaskier, singing through chapped lips and underneath his left hand falls a small puddle of blood, his fingers cut open by the lute strings. The monarch grimaces each time he fumbles on a chord, fingers slick with blood struggling to make purchase. He has been given a crown made of bramble, thistles and poison ivy. His face is tracked with tears, whether in pain or fear, Geralt cannot guess. Time passes strangely in the fae realm, so although Jaskier has only been gone from the physical world an hour, he may have been playing for many. By the sight of his torn fingers, Geralt supposes that is likely the case. 

He pushes past the creatures and into the centre of the hall, making his presence known. The fae monarch’s black eyes dart towards him. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaims, his voice breaking. 

The fae monarch speaks, their words echoing with not one voice, but many, in a bellowing command.

“Did I bid you stop, bard? You will cease playing when I allow it.” 

Jaskier winces as he sets his fingers back into position in order to begin another song. His eyes are pleading and locked onto Geralt.

“What business has a Witcher in my court?” The fae monarch says, and Geralt resists the urge to roll his eyes. The insect-infested cavern makes for a poor imitation of a royal court. The gems that shine from the walls are pretty, yes, but that doesn’t make a mine any more grand. 

“I’ve come for the bard,” Geralt says, and the monarch hisses in protest. 

“Too late, Witcher. I have decided the bard will make a fine husband for my daughter.” 

Geralt notices the young girl, of perhaps twenty years, sitting beside the monarch. She may have been human once, but too long in the faerie realm has turned her features monstrous; her hair like weeds, her nose flattened into her face with only pinprick nostrils. Her ears have extended outwards, branching off like a tree, similar to the monarch’s crown. Her black eyes look toward Jaskier and she smiles sweetly, the only part of her still resembling her human origins.

“He doesn’t belong here,” Geralt argues, “He’s human.”

“He has no need for the human world. I will provide him with all he could ever want: an endless life without pain, a beautiful bride, food that will never rot. Who are you to decide where he belongs, Witcher?” 

Geralt sighs. The fae are possessive, and tricksy; using whatever claims they like to ensure their victims must stay with them forever. Although survival does not come easy in the faerie realm. He glances at Jaskier, who has continued to sing all through his conversation with the monarch. His eyes are wide with panic, eyebrows raised and knitting together. 

Geralt thinks. He only needs to devise a reason that Jaskier should be allowed to leave, regardless of its truthfulness. 

“He can’t marry your daughter. He’s already betrothed.”

The monarch scowls, “To whom?” 

“To me.” Geralt declares, arms crossed defiantly. The low buzzing emitting from the creatures increases, the equivalent of tittered murmuring among a human audience. 

Jaskier's mouth drops open, his playing halted only for a second before he continues. 

The monarch’s eyes narrow, “You claim he is your betrothed? What say you, bard?” 

Jaskier hesitates until the fae ruler nods, and he relaxes his fingers from the strings. “It’s, uh, it’s true, he is my beloved.” 

The monarch’s fists clench on their throne; Geralt knows the fae hate to lose, whether it be a game or a living person. 

“Very well. Show me proof of your love, and I will return both of you to the world of men.” 

Geralt and Jaskier glance at each other, mirroring their confused expressions. 

“What sort of proof?” Geralt asks. 

“A kiss,” The monarch says, with a smile on their face. One last amusement for the ruler before they go, is it? “For two lovers, is that so egregious a request?” 

Jaskier’s mouth is in a hard line, his uninjured hand clutching the strap of his lute. Geralt can smell his fear radiating off him. He can’t very well leave him just to avoid a simple kiss, can he? 

“Fine.” Geralt says, holding his hand out towards Jaskier, who looks at the monarch again for permission. They nod, and Jaskier ambles slowly over, looking at Geralt with doubt. As he reaches out with his right hand, Geralt grabs him by the waist, pulling him close before Jaskier can overthink it. At first, Geralt only intends to kiss him chastely, closed mouth and brief, but without thinking he runs his tongue along Jaskier’s dry lips, and he feels him flinch in response. And then his mouth opens, allowing their tongues to meet. Jaskier’s heartbeat is quickening in his chest. Geralt tightens his grasp on Jaskier’s waist, and with his other hand he grabs his chin, withdrawing from his lips. 

The scent of fear has all but vanished. He moves Jaskier so they’re both facing the fae ruler. They have a sly grin on their face, and Geralt worries they’ve seen through their flimsy ruse. 

“I have seen enough. You are free to go.” 

Jaskier’s shoulders drop in relief, glancing at Geralt to smile. 

“Farewell, Witcher. The fae court blesses your union.” The monarch says, extending a hand out towards them. Dizziness washes over Geralt for a second.

And then they are standing in a glen on the edge of dusk. The ground is damp with the remnants of rain, 

“Aahh, sweet Melitele, it is good to breathe fresh air again,” Jaskier sighs. 

“Come on. Roach is waiting,” Geralt says, grabbing the makeshift crown from his head and throwing it on the ground.

Having collected Roach from where Geralt had tied her, they find somewhere to set up camp as the chill of the evening quickly sets in. Jaskier swallows the entire contents of Geralt’s water skin, spilling droplets down his chin. The fire is finally lit by the time Geralt takes a look at Jaskier’s hand. 

The cuts in the pads of his fingers have crusted with dried blood, and while Jaskier complains they sting, he is otherwise unhurt. Geralt covers them in a salve and tells him to avoid touching anything for a while.

“I won’t be able to play for a while like this. I’m sure you’re devastated,” Jaskier says, examining his fingers as Geralt tends to the fire.

“Hm.” 

“At least I can still sing.” 

“Isn’t that lucky.”

Jaskier goes quiet. Geralt removes his armour and swords, sitting by the fire. He feels himself succumbing to the weariness that comes in the night. 

“Thank you, Geralt. You come to my aid too often.” Jaskier says softly.

Geralt grunts, “Faeriekind steal people who might entertain them, and force them to do so until they die, or join them. They’re jealous, capricious creatures.”

“Ah. Like you, then?” 

Geralt glances at him, furrowing his brow. What nonsense was he sputtering now? 

“You’ve never let me ride Roach,” Jaskier says, as if that explains it. 

“She’s my horse.”

“Exactly. The faeries tell you that I’m to marry one of them, and you immediately claim I’m yours.” 

For a moment, he is struck silent. “Hm,” is all Geralt can say in lieu of a response.

The light of the flames flicker across Jaskier’s face, “I wouldn’t mind if I were.”

“Speak clearly, bard.” 

Jaskier inhales, muttering something to himself, and then reaches forward, cupping Geralt’s face to kiss him. Geralt pulls back, but Jaskier seems undeterred and holds his gaze. 

“Come on, you and I both know that kiss was no deception,” Jaskier almost whispers, his trembling voice betraying his nerves. 

Geralt pushes him to the ground, pinning his wrists by the sides of his head. Jaskier’s eyes go wide, but a beat passes, and a smile slowly appears on his face. And then Geralt presses their mouths together. Jaskier’s lips are moist, and his mouth opens eagerly underneath him. 

“Really, you should try to do something about that possessive streak of yours.” Jaskier says, grinning slyly. 

“Isn’t that voice of yours tired?” 

“Takes a lot to shut me up. But you’re welcome to try.”

“Hmm.” Geralt says, and leans down to do just that.

**Author's Note:**

> do fae exist in the witcher universe? idk.  
> the faerie ruler is genderless also, hope that's clear.


End file.
